Literati Redux
by Utopist
Summary: Rewrites and deleted scenes. What I think should have happened, or what I wished would have happened. Literati.
1. Rewrite 1: The Haunted Leg

Disclaimer: I'm disclaiming. Cute word, that one. Should be used more often, don'tcha think?

Being the glutton for punishment I usually am, I keep rewatching episodes and clips. My literaty heart is just about ready to kill me... Hence, the decision to engage in this odeal: I will be doing episode rewrites and deleted scenes. The land of Literati Illusion awaits you. I hope you have a pleasant stay.

Rewrite #1: Haunted Leg.

"Why the cold shoulder?"

She doesn't really know what happens in the next thirty seconds.

She'll think about this moment repeatedly in the future, remembering it as few, sparsely, wildly misplaced snapshots... puzzle pieces jigsawing their way in and out of place.

His eyes fixing on hers.

The drowning sensation, forgetting to breathe, forgetting the need to breathe, the need to remind herself that she does need to breathe...

The clang of the basket she's holding as it falls on the floor between them...

His body, closing in on hers, leaving her no space, no escape... her unwillingness to push him away.

The conflict between should be, could be, and supposed to be making no sense, losing its meaning.

He doesn't know what comes over him when he decides that this situation is very much at a stalemate. He does not want to wait for her. He cannot wait for her. He feels that his time is going to be running out.

He wants her. He purely and simply wants her. He hasn't been able to sleep, he hasn't been able to quell the vise pressing on his stomach, the alternate pangs of hurt, guilt, shame, want, need that hit at him randomly, at any given moment throughout the day.

He cannot stand this. He cannot go through it again. He might be tough, but she has broken him. And he can't, for the life of him, forgive her for this. For this past summer, for finding excuses, for not being there to sort it all out. For playing a game she doesn't even know is hurting everybody lucky enough to be involved in it.

So he backs her up against the shelf, not caring if the entire world sees them, and kisses her. And it's that feeling all over again.and it's that feeling all over again. The one that overtook and overpowered him last summer.

Suddendly. It happens suddendly, this kiss. Initiated by him, now, no mistaking of his intentions. His lips are on hers, and they allow the world to fall into oblivion... Not Dean, not Shane, not her mother, not her grandmother, not the entire freaking town can stop it.

This.

Them.

This is them coming together.

As his lips first brush, and then press over hers she is taken aback by his actions. Some part of her, the rational part of her would like to protest as his weigh rests on hers, there against the shelves, and some other part of her, the bizzarre one, is thinking that he's returning the favor. A kiss for a kiss. Fair trade all around.

She will not list to either frustrated rant. She concentrates on those lips which caress, bruise, careen on hers and his arms, fairly locking their position as it is and his tongue, dueling with hers... This kiss... this kiss she isn't able to slice in half, this kiss she cannot ruin, this moment that is so wrong she can't help to wish it was right... this kiss... is drawing her in like nothing in her young, sheltered life has before.

Their moment is interrupted by a booming voice behind them.

"What on earth are you doing? Don't you know that such public displays of affection are..."

Voice that is cut short as he sees who Jess is actually kissing. If Taylor Doose had been mad, now he is definately enraged

"Rory? Aren't you dating Dean? Surely you didn't want to... What is this hoodlum doing to you? I knew he was trouble! He's forcing himself on you, isn't he? I'm going to call Luke and set him straight on this..."

Jess has enough common sense to step slightly away from Rory, while sending her a glance that all but begs her not to slip away from his grasp once more. To his surprise, she shows no signs of an impending panick attack. Her words prove to be about as surprising as she speaks up.

"No Taylor. He wasn't." Now she has no excuse. She must tell Dean. She must do something about it... there can be no running away now, no hiding her head under the sand, no trip to Egypt while looking at the Nile.

The she looks outside, and sees her mother's face. It is unreadable, undecypherable... she thinks she could trace an "I told you so" mixed with an "I'm resigned to this" but she isn't sure. So she pushes Jess a little farther away, picks up her basket, and pays for her junk food. But she isn't running from him, now. He can follow her, if he wants, there is something in the way she has put her hands at his shoulders, let her gaze linger on his as she turned away, that told him so. He could follow her. He chooses not to.

She doesn't need him right now, but she'll seek him out later. At least, he hopes so. He's done all he could, actually, more than he wanted, because kissing her like that hasn't been in his plans. Not tonight, not ever. He has been wanting her to come to him. The whole summer, he's been waiting for her to dump Dean and make the moves all by herself. Moving back, he figures, fulfills the requirements on his part. He's been figuring it wrong, and he just realized it tonight. Girls like Rory need to be unsettled. Pushed. The stone sinks to the bottom of the lake. The ripples may not be upsetting the water any longer, but that stone... it will still be there.

So he's unsettled her again, his kiss the proverbial stone sinking through the water. But Jess Mariano isn't done with it. He is far from done with the whole freaking situation. He refuses to be left hanging one more minute than it proves to be necessary. That's why he has been loitering by the Gilmore house, waiting for all the lights to be turned off. And that's why he is now tapping at Rory's window pane, somehow knowing her not to be asleep.

"Hey"

he opens the window, confused and ashamed and happy and excited

"What are you doing here?"

This question is entirely too familiar to him

"Hello to you too"

She grins. She wants to kiss him, he can tell. And he wants her. Again. But he just brings a hand to her face and lets a lingering caress travel its way to her.

"So..."

"What now..."

They speak at the same moment, and refrain from laughing too hard, in fear of waking up unwarrented witness

She leans her face in his touch, trough the windowframe. Her eyes search for his

"What now?" he asks of her.

"Now... I just talked to my mother." She sees his expression set into something cold, something she doesn't like. "And I told her I've been wrong."

"Wrong?"

"I told her about you, and kissing you at Sookie's wedding... I told her everything."

"Everything?"

She blushes

"The echo tonight is nuts." She attempts at humor. He smirks.

"Come on, Rory, tell me." He urges her gently, with that drawl of his she feel playing directly with her heart "Come on Rory. Tell me."

And then it all comes pouring out from her "You... and me... and what is much, and Ernest has only lovely things to say about me..."

He tries following her, but there is no logic in what she's saying.

"Hey. You do realize you're making no sense?"

"Yeah. 'Cause you standing in front of my window at..." she glances at the clock back in her room. "... Ten to midnight is making so much sense, your picture is being added near the definition in the Webster's as we speak." She takes a deep breath, her hands fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist. It hits her again, full force, the sheer extent of what she's about to engage in.

"I feel horrible. About all of this..."

He's taken aback. The anger is washing over him, wave after crashing wave.

"You're feeling horrible?"

He can't freaking believe her.

" I'm sorry, did I hear from you at all this summer? Did I just happen to miss the thousands of phone calls you made to me, or did the postman happen to lose all those letters you wrote to me? You kiss me, you tell me not to say anything. . .very flattering, by the way. You go off to Washington. . . then nothing. Then you come back here all put out because I didn't just sit around and wait for you like Dean would've done? And yeah, what about Dean? Are you still with him? 'Cause last time I checked, you were, and I haven't heard anything to the contrary. Plus, the two of you walking around the other day like some damn Andy Hardy movie. Seemed to me like you're still pretty together. I half expected you to break into a barn and put on a show.

"When did you see me with Dean?" She grabs at this straw, something to hang on as she feels a storm approaching.

"At that stupid summer insanity plea the town put on." He still doesn't know why he went.

"Jess..."

"Did you call me at all? "

"No."

"Did you send me a letter?"

"No."

"Postcard?"

"No."

"Smoke signal?"

"Stop."

"A nice fruit basket? "

"Enough!"

"Are you still with Dean? Come on, Rory, yes or no – are you still with Dean?"

She can't stand him anymore. So she cuts him off with the words that have been there ever since she opened up her window.

"I don't want to be with Dean anymore!"

He's effectively shut up now, and she is even more shocked than he is.

"Ok." he manages to blurt out, regaining his voice.

He looks at the window frame. "Climb out?"

She nods.

They sit on the porch beneath it, joined at the shoulder, hip, leg, and upraised knee.

"And you and..."

She is hesitant.

"Her name's Shane"

"As in Come Back?"

"Are you..." She forces herself to swallow her pride. At least, what remains of it. Jess is no help. He's going to be sitting there, waiting for her to speak. "...breaking... up with her?"

Her lip is going to kill her in the morning, for being chewed up so forcefully she thinks she'll draw blood.

Hegives a single nod.

Neither says a word.

Jess looks for a cigarette.

Rory smiles.


	2. Rewrite 2: I Can't Get Started

Disclaimer: I'm disclaiming! Sounds dirrrty, doesn't it?

A couple of Lit!Threads ago, the topic of discussion veered to fanfiction. Namely, the various writing styles, the points of view, characterization and lenght. I'm making a long story short, and informing you that I'm going to torture the living heck out of the second-person POV. Ready? Deep breath and...

Thank you Lyds for going over this. You rock. But you knew that already. :)

Rewrite #2: I Can't Get Started.

Two strong arms. The scent of his cologne. The way that suit looks on him. The utter shock of seeing him in a suit, the only other time you've seen him dressed up being for that ridiculous "Coming Out" event your grandmother shanghaied you into. He cuts the hug short, stirring something uneasy inside of you. He claims it to be a business call, but you can't help doubting, since it's a Sunday, after all, and you're not stupid.You choose to remain in your happy daze, though, and breathe in the spring air while you tick off all the reasons you should be joyous about. The election that went well. School that is easy as usual. The amazing boyfriend you have. The family that will soon be righteously formed. Mother. Father. Daughter. The very thing you've been anxiously waiting for, and striving towards, during your entire life. Utter perfection, that is. And it's finally within reach.

Then you turn around, your gaze straying upon the old, familiar weeping willow.

Perfection loses its appeal.

You pause for a moment.

He stands there, looking at you, and you think there is something slightly different in his stance. He shouldn't be here, anywhere near here. You know all there is to know about him, and crucial part of this information consists in understanding that he hates this very place you love so much.

You also thought you would never see him again, and you have done your best to see your impromptu NYC trip as closure to whatever relationship the two of you might have been engaged in. Relationship, you feel the need to explain to yourself, viewed as "interaction between two people".

He's impossibly broody, morose, and you desperately want to deny that he draws you in and swallows you whole every time you barely even think about him. You can't, though, and that is why you're walking towards him. You think he can't deny it either, and that is why he's walking towards you as well.

Then you both stop, an imaginary line drawn between the two of you, invisible but tangible barrier that reminds both of what is, and what should be, and everything that is not. You want to scream in frustration, then, because your heart just literally claws at your ribcage, and his eyes are studying you, and you are forced to speak around the proverbial lump in your throat.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you too."

And you want to smack yourself. Leave it to you to rush right in and not even say hi. Now you notice the different factor in his stance... he's nervous.

"Is everything ok?"

And you want to smack yourself once more, with feeling.

"You look nice." He tells you, and this shocks you. Not the compliment, per se, or the fact that he's complimenting you, per se... but it feels... like he should be saying something deep, and meaningful... or maybe it's because you have this weird sensation of walking on a ledge, and the next words he utters could be responsible for your jumping.

"Thank you" Because, after all, he deserves to be thanked for what he's said. "What are you doing here?"

And why, you berate yourself in the meantime, can't you stop harping on this for a minute?

"I moved back"

"What?"

"I moved back"

"But... what... why?"

"Just... wanted to"

You jump, after this exchange, because said ledge just falls out from under you.

You kiss him.

You.

And you feel him staggering back, before reacting and kissing you back and touching your face, and grabbing you at the waist. And then your brain kicks into gear and you pull away, and it doesn't matter that your lips are already craving for more, that your entire body screams at you for breaking the contact.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

You don't even know why you're bother God with this. It's surely something that he cannot help you with, but you give it a shot anyways.

"Rory..."

His voice spins you around, you ready to leave and forget and bury this episode so deep, your own conscience will not be able to dig it up and torture you with it.

"Don't say a word."

You beg this of him, not understanding what it is you're asking. Whether you don't want him to say anything to anybody, or not say anything right now, because it just might stop you from fleeing. And he listens to you, and he doesn't utter a sound. You just feel him grabbing you again, and pulling you towards him, and turning you so he can look in your eyes, before his lips are on you again.

You're too stunned, too swept away by this roller coaster ride that is this new kiss, to struggle. Or even merely protest.

He lets you go as abruptly as he's taken you, and you feel as rooted to the earth as the willow you're standing under.

"Still don't want me to say anything?" he mutters, his arms around you, his lips slightly parted, his eyes a little less morose than usual.

You shake your head, and keep looking at him, all ability to speak completely lost.

"I have to go." You manage to get out. "The... wedding... Sookie..."

You don't want to go. You don't want to stop touching him, or kissing him, or gazing at him. You don't want to think about what's going to happen next, about Washington and Paris and Mom and Christopher and Dean.

God. Dean.

He nods, and releases you from his embrace.

You look at him still.

"I'm going to go to Washington." You blurt out. "I'll be gone six weeks, it's for school..."

He just nods again, and you suddenly want to cry.

"I don't know what to do."

You admit it, and you wonder what it is about him that pushes you to be honest, even when you don't want to be.

"It's ok." You hear him reassuring you, and you believe him. "I'm... just... gonna go."

He starts backing away.

You nod and smile a little.

"You'll be at Luke's, won't you?" You call after him.

"I'll have the coffee ready." He calls back, still retreating, before turning and walking away.


	3. Deleted Scene 1: The Letter

Disclaimer: I have a distinct feeling of Deja-Vu.

While you read, pretend that Jess is standing on the beach, while Rory finds a package in the mailbox. She opens it, she finds The Holy Barbarians, and Jess's later. Which is "read" in his voiceover.

For the lovely gals over at S-H, who really, really, really wanted this letter.

Deleted Scene # 1: The Letter.

Rory-

I was flipping through this copy of The Holy Barbarians, and I realized it's actually yours. It's not fair to you for me to keep it, so I'm sending it back. I'll pretend it's just something I'm doing because it's the right thing to do. So, pretend this letter fell in between its pages because of a moment of carelessness.

I can pretend I don't care about this book, but it's not true. In the short time I've had it, I read it cover to cover. I know all there is to know about it. Ranks right up there with those works by Hemingway you hate so much. He's still thinking and saying lovely things about you. He always has. He never stopped.

I need to be different. I need things to be different. I need to know if there is a place where things can, or will, be different. I need to know if out here, with the sun and sky and the ocean and the beach, I can be different.

It's got nothing to do with you. It's got everything to do with you. My life's a mess and I don't know what to do about it. I don't know how, but I know I' ve got to figure it out soon. Here. Without you.

Jess.

**A/N: Hehehehe. There it is. I've been wanting to do that for a while. Now... I just gotta tackle K!M! and... more moments... stay tuned. Oh, for who's wondering... LUFI, which you should be reading if you want long, deep, meaningful, angsty chapters... is not abandoned. It's on a little hiatus. But it shall be updated. Carys thanks for the feedback.**


	4. Rewrite 3: Keg Max

Disclaimer: This is getting repetitive! I so don't own! If I did, you think I'd let the lits suffer the way they've been doing for the past two seasons?

This is for the lits at S-H, because they're special, generous, wonderful girls who can't give up hope.

Rewrite # 3: Keg! Max.

"Let's go, let's get out of here."

"Go where?"

"Anywhere."

"It's early."

"It's boring."

"Jess, we can't just go."

"Yes, we can."

You want to answer him, but Lane calls for you and you, ever the best friend, put your boyfriend on hold, asking him to wait, telling him you'll be there with him soon. You think that whatever has been weighing down on him, whatever chip he's been carrying on his shoulder, can be dealt with later. Sometime that is not now, somewhere that is not here. So you kiss his lips, and turn away from him.

A few minutes. That's how long you've been gone, curtesy of Lane Kim, and you can't find him anywhere. You look around, searching for him downstairs, climbing up to the first floor and opening doors to rooms, disturbing couples, intruding upon stolen privacy. You will yourself not to think that you wish you were up there with Jess, or somewhere similar, doing similar things. You think of all the times you kissed him on your bed, listening for the sound of your mother's car and pushing him out the window, left wanting more and unable to determine which consequences more would entail.

Fifteen minutes later, and he is still nowhere to be found, and you suddenly consider that he was so adamant about wanting to leave, he might have done just that... and left.

You are running out the front door and into the street, then. The key bounces heavily around your belt, hitting your hip in reminder of your mother's words. You wander aimlessly around town. You find yourself at the bridge. You think you almost see him, sitting and looking out into space and smoking... but there he is not.

And you take off again.

The lights are on at the apartment above the diner. You know that it must be him.

The door is unlocked. Up you go.

"There you are."

"Hey."

"You should have told me you were leaving... I've been looking all over for you." You want to muster up some anger, and find out you can't. There's something in his eyes... or maybe in the way he sits there, an unread book in his lap, his shoulders sagging.

"Just got tired of everything." He looks at you. "Couldn't be there anymore. Sorry... I... " He does not complete his thought, leaving you hanging upon his words.

You walk up to him, stroke his cheek, watch him kiss your palm and avert his eyes.

"Sad boy, what's wrong? You were looking forward to this party, what happened?"

"Nothing."

"Something did. Come on, tell me." You let him kiss you, trying to quell that irrational fear... "You're not tired of me, are you?" which slips out of you right then, before he launches another attack on your lips. "That's a pretty good answer."

You see something shift in him, in the air around you.

There is something slightly different in the way he curls his arms around you, now.

In the way you close your eyes as you kiss him, as he walks you back to the bed and your fingers reach for his hair.

As you sit, and you kiss, and you lie down, and you kiss, still. And he lies down on top of you...

..."Wait..." and his hands... "Jess"...are everywhere... and his lips are against your neck...

"Wait..." and then... he reaches for your belt, and you feel your keys bump against your hip, and you jump up, away from him..."Jess!" You look at him. He looks so...

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me."

"Something is! You think you could just... and that we'd... without talking..."

You don't know why you stopped. Maybe because of that key, hanging from that stupid belt. It's just a house key, but it is heavy on the symbolism.

"I don't know what I think anymore."

"Jess..."

"Rory, stop, just stop! I did not invite you up here, you came up here on your own!"

Damn those tears that pool in your eyes. Damn them for spilling out of your lids. Damn them for tumbling down your face.

"I don't know what I did." Damn him for cornering your feelings like this, again. You're both standing now, he near the window, you almost out the door.

"You didn't do anything. Rory. . . "

You talk over him, angry and sad and scared. "What's happening, Jess? What's going on with you?"

He just sits down on the bed again.

You notice how he doesn't look at you. How he looks down at his hands. How he lies down to stare at the ceiling, and he's still not meeting your eyes.

How he waits.

Slowly, hesitantly, you walk back to the bed, and tower over him.

"I'm not graduating." He talks to the ceiling. To the lamp hanging from the celing. "I'm not graduating, I cut too much school, and they're not gonna let me take summer school." He closes his eyes, shutting himself off from the rest of the room, from you, from the disappointment he thinks you'll be feeling.

"Jess..."

"Go away, Rory."

"Jess..."

"Just go."

You stomp your foot in frustration.

"I'm not going anywhere! I'm going to stay here, and you can just deal with my presence, if it bothers you that much!" You climb on the bed and sit on his stomach, determined to be acknowledged and dealt with.

Time elapses.

He hesitantly relaxes under you, and reaches up his hands to your face. You let him run his thumbs over your cheeks, your lips, your nose, your neck. You bend, tentatively, for a kiss, feeling his hands over your body once more.

"You should have told me." You accuse, softly, while brushing your lips to his.

He nods. "Yeah." He sighs as you feel him holding you tighter. "I didn't want..."

You shush him, against your better judgement. Right now, you just want to kiss him. You'll have time to talk later, to fight and resolve this issue, you reason. You reach down, towards your belt, and unbuckle it.

Clink!

Jess pulls away, his eyes boring into yours. You keep your gazes locked as you slowly withdraw the belt from the loops, hold it up for him to see, and then rebuckle it, only to drop it to the floor.

Clink!

He pulls you against him, kissing you almost ferociously. You don't know what to do with your hands, so you finally slip them under his shirt to rest on his bare skin. You push upwards, until you've manged to rid him of the garment. You feel him smirking against your lips. Your shirt flies across the room, his pants come undone under your fluttering fingers, yours end up on the floor on top of his, along with two pairs of discarded shoes.

His lips are everywhere, your hands are roaming over his body. Two sets of difficult breathing, two racing heartbeats.

A condom packet fished from the bedside table top drawer, the distinct noise of foil ripping.

The sharp pain at the beginning, the little jolt like lightning. The sheet balled up in your hands. His eyes into yours, a million unspoken conversations held in the few seconds it takes for you to acclimate yourself to this. You nod, bringing your lips back to his, giving in to the impulse of wrapping your legs around him. The gasp escaping your lips, and his sudden halt.

"Ok?" He arranges his features into a frown.

You move your limbs, shift your hips, kiss him again before closing your eyes. You pull him close, making him rest his weight on top of you, and stop thinking about how, and why and am I doing this right?

His hands, your hands, his lips, your lips. Him, you. You, him. Something pulls at you, lifting you, releasing you, making you fall before you can really soar.

Then it is over, and you don't know what to do, or what to think. You hide under the sheet. It only takes a minute for him to coax you out, cuddle you in his arms, pull you close and ask if you're ok. You whisper to each other a thousand meaningless things, until you fall asleep in his arms.

When you wake up, he's still there.

**A/N: So, here it is. Feed Carys the muse with reviews, please. And stay tuned for more. **


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